


Desperation

by warcatscat



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Author is Projecting on Aziraphale, Heavy Angst, Negative Self Talk, No Beta, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 04:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warcatscat/pseuds/warcatscat
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't ever know when to stop. After all, it was better that incompetent angels didn't try to think.





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, it's your friendly neighborhood angst writer with a vent fic written at 4am. No, I do not plan on following this up or 'fixing' it. if someone is interested in writing a followup from Crowley's point of view, please feel free to do so, but please send me a message so I can read it. 
> 
> I write a lot of vent fics, and my good friend encouraged me to post this one because she really enjoyed it (I am also working on my self-confidence issues with a counselor. Please, no self-help suggestions at this time.) I hope you enjoy this and/or you connect with it. Feel free to message me here or on Tumblr @warcats-cat, and as always, have a good day. <3
> 
> ((UPDATE there are now works inspired by this one and they are AMAZING!! Please go give those writers some love too!! I don't have enough words to express how honored I am to be an inspo, nor how touched that they would choose to help me find a little further catharsis from one of my most personal fics.))

They’d always said he was too far gone in his own head to see anything happening in front of him.

Incompetent and a coward. Bumbling and snobbish. Inferior.  _ Soft _ .

Aziraphale watched Crowley doze from the corner of his eyes; the demon in question sprawled out across the back room’s other couch and taking up absolutely every spare inch of sunlit space he could possibly manage. Aziraphale was holding a book in his hands, but couldn’t really say he’d been reading for at least the past hour. He’d just been staring off into space, or staring at the serpentine demon before him, thinking. 

It was rather dangerous for an incompetent angel to think, so he’d been told. 

There was no denying that Crowley was beautiful. In the few odd months since the apocalypse, Aziraphale had given himself the freedom to indulge in that particular thought; Crowley was long and sharp and stunningly beautiful. 

From unkempt red hair and golden eyes to the tips of the shoes he never took off, nothing was ever out of place. Aziraphale had never been a fan of all-black, but the lack of color made Crowley seem more mysterious. Crowley’s movements, when he bothered to move, were slick and swaying, and seemed both relaxed and calculated in one. He was the epitome of aesthetic and attractiveness. 

His manners left something to be desired, but Aziraphale couldn't fault him; he was a demon after all.

Unbidden from the depths of his mind, a voice not unlike his ex-boss’s whispered to the angel. 

_ “What, exactly, are you compared to him?” _

The question left a heavy feeling deep in his stomach; he didn’t have an answer. Lately, it seemed that Crowley had been coming over more out of habit (or lack of something better to do) than an actual desire to spend time with the angel. If Crowley spoke to him at all, it was in terse, one-or-two word responses to questions, or the occasional dismissive gesture. If and when he came over, he would do as he was now; slip off to the back room and laze in the sun, while Aziraphale read. 

In the beginning, Aziraphale had tried to engage the demon in more conversation; showing off interesting books, or pointing out passages of news that Crowley may like. But everything was tense, now. 

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to snap at the demon, of course. Gabriel had popped by for a ‘visit’ which left the angel feeling vulnerable and utterly worthless. Crowley had been at his side almost immediately afterward; missing Gabriel by moments. The demon had been tense, a bit twitchy, but had meticulously looked Aziraphale over from top to toe, before trying to wrap the angel in a hug, which was pushed away with a whine.

“What happens when he’s right? What happens when you’re exhausted with me? I’m worried that someday you’re going to be gone, and I won’t even be able to fault you.”

And of course, that had done it. Crowley’s eyes had gone cold, he’d pulled sharply away as if stung by the angel’s words. Aziraphale realized the harshness of his statement too late; selfishness and desperation mixing into a poison that turned Crowley’s kind gestures against him, six thousand years of companionship thrown back in Crowley’s face as if it were nothing. Apologies tumbled from his mouth, but the damage was done, and without another word, demon had vanished for a week. It seemed as though Aziraphale had done exactly what he was afraid of. 

Crowley had come back, of course, but it wasn’t the same. And now here they were. 

Aziraphale had apologized, had tried to give Crowley space, had tried to bring things back to normal, but nothing was working. The demon was  _ there _ , but being  _ there _ and being _ here _ felt so different. They were in each other’s space, but not their lives. 

Maybe this was what Aziraphale deserved, for being cruel. A true friend (or more?) trusted their friend with everything. They didn’t snap and say mean things. They didn’t pressure their friend to stay closer or spend more time. They didn’t demand attention. 

Crowley sighed, and shifted, and just before his eyes could lazily slide open, Aziraphale’s own snapped down to his book. He felt his body go taught with anxious energy, but couldn’t make himself look up or say a word. After a few moments, the demon huffed, and Aziraphale heard him stand from the couch and stalk out the door. Only then did Aziraphale put his book down. 

No, Gabriel was right, it was never really a good idea for him to think. Crowley was beautiful and Aziraphale just  _ was _ . Crowley was adaptable and Aziraphale just  _ was _ . Crowley was suave and slick and confident, and Aziraphale was lucky if he didn’t habitually apologise to a table when he bumped into it. Crowley was everything Aziraphale wanted in his life; everything he wanted to be and the only person in eternity that he loved, and Aziraphale himself probably wasn’t worthy to so much as lick the demon’s boots in the end. 

He was making it worse for Crowley, being so anxious in his space. Crowley had so much going on, anyway, constantly watching over his shoulder for Hellish agents that may or may not be sent after him. How could the demon even stand him anymore? Was he staying simply out of tradition? Was Aziraphale dragging him down? 

Aziraphale set the book in his hands aside, not bothering to make a note of the page he left off, and moved to sit instead at his desk. He propped his head up on his hands, both elbows shaking with the effort of holding back his emotions and palms cradling his forehead. He really should save Crowley the trouble; call and tell the demon that  _ it’s ok, I wouldn’t want to deal with me either, _ because that would be the respectful thing to do. 

But Aziraphale was selfish. And scared. If Crowley was gone, he wouldn’t really have anyone else to talk to. The other angels wanted nothing to do with him now, humans couldn’t possibly understand his life, and there were enough other entities that considered him annoying and a waste of space anyway. It would hurt, to let the demon go. 

But it was selfish to keep him around when he didn’t want to be. 

In the end, Aziraphale was still too much of a coward to say anything face-to-face. He wrote a note in his cleanest calligraphy; having to stop every few minutes or so and regain his composure, and meticulously ensuring that not a single stray tear touched the paper. It hurt, but it was for  _ Crowley _ , it was  _ for the best _ , he kept telling himself. He only wanted his friend to be happy, and if that made him not Aziraphale’s friend anymore, the angel would have to learn to live with it. Everything would be better for everyone, in the end. 

The angel took a long, steadying breath that he really didn’t need, and waved his hand, watching the letter disappear.  _ This is better for him _ , he repeated, over and over in his head,  _ This will make him happy. _ And with one last wipe of his eyes, the angel wobbled up his stairs, to make use of the dust covered old bed in the flat above. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Consolation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650641) by [HopeCoppice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice)


End file.
